


Inconveniently Inevitable

by Providence7979



Category: A Country Called Home (2015)
Genre: Canon Continuation, Eventual Romance, F/M, Slow Burn, Small Towns, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, musings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 00:15:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29001330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Providence7979/pseuds/Providence7979
Summary: Based off the 2015 movie A Country Called Home.First Person musings of the the events that take place during the movie, and importantly, what I believe might have happened after Reno gets in the car with Ellie and they drive off into the sunset. Sometimes soulmates come in the forms of friends, often unexpected, and always exactly when they're needed. But what happens when that friendship begins hinting at something more?
Relationships: Ellie/Reno
Comments: 9
Kudos: 5





	Inconveniently Inevitable

**Author's Note:**

> A slight divergence from my usual writing (and yes, if you've read any of my New World series, you'll have figured out by now that I am an unabashed stan of Mackenzie Davis and all of her characters)
> 
> My feelings for Reno cannot be adequately summed up with just words. I'd need about a dozen emoji's, at least another dozen GIF's, and even then I'm not sure I could do him justice. He is simply the sweetest, most charming, adorable, vulnerable, kind and considerate cowboy that ever did exist, and his heart must be protected at all cost!
> 
> Ellie's friendship with Reno is unexpected and precious. And there were definite moments where they were giving off very strong romantic vibes. So I just had to write my version of how he and Ellie may have ended up after the movie finished. 
> 
> This is just one chapter at the moment, but if there's interest, I'm definitely open to continuing their story. 
> 
> Also, as a stringent WLW fan, writing a heterosexual relationships as the main focus isn't exactly my forte, but for Reno and Ellie, I'm going to try my best. I can't say I'll be any good at it! 
> 
> As always, I'm more than happy for constructive feedback or comments. 
> 
> Please enjoy
> 
> Music Credits:  
> If You Lose Your Horses - Rae Spoon  
> Born this way – Lady Ga Ga  
> Hurt – Johnny Cash, Nine Inch Nails  
> Ring of Fire - Johnny Cash, June Carter

**Ellie**

I remember the moment I first saw him in vague detail, but he soon formed a much more vivid memory for me. He was so unexpected, and exactly the company I needed that evening. But as wonderful as the night had been, I didn’t think I’d ever see him again after that.

And, what a loss that would have been.

Coming home. Can I really even call it that anymore? Home? Well, if I had to describe how I felt about it in one word, being back home was uncomfortable.

And then Reno sidled up to the bar, pilfered a beer, and moved so smoothly into the space between us, his easy presence providing humour and company without expectation. And it was very much welcome.

I remember seeing him get on the stage, I remember noticing his voice, his seemingly effortless charm, his physical presence, and how handsome he was. The confident waggish way he declared that the key I had in my hands was the long-lost key to his heart, was just too endearing.

Had any other man used that line with me at any of the bars I frequented in LA, it would have been cause for a dramatic eye roll. But for some reason, here in Texas, coming from his lips, it was nothing but charming, and I found myself slightly mortified by the blush I felt creeping up my cheeks. 

He had an honesty about him that was completely disarming, and his casual, no strings attached confidence was somewhat magnetic. He sensed my mood and instead of prying or attempting to fix it, he made me laugh, he engaged me in his light-hearted banter, and he helped me forget my troubles for a little while. 

But it was the ease and gentleness with which he soon invited me into what must have been a very private part of his world that really stood out.

We sat quietly in that hospital room as he strummed a soothing melody on his guitar, and in the comforting absence of expectation or conversation I finally felt able to process parts of what the last 24 hours had thrown at me. To shore up my resolve, and to shrug off a little of the discomfort.

And I only felt able to do that, because of the way his presence and his music gently and unobtrusively orbited around me.

Reno had an unusual mix of guilelessness and wisdom about him that kept catching me off-guard. He had a kind of wisdom that wasn’t showy, a quiet understanding that only comes from profound hardship, but he was also innocent in a way that made my chest hurt in an unfamiliar protective reflex. He was achingly unassuming but not at all naïve.

Watching him, I realised that the world would have tried time and time again to trample over his gentle soul, and I experienced an intense yet rather useless desire to retrospectively shield him from that harm.

I could tell from that moment earlier in the night, when that beer bottle shattered so close to his feet, that he was used to the cruelty, that it had probably cut him deeply in the past. But despite that, he hadn’t let his scars callous over to become that thick defensive layer that so many of us do. Instead, he somehow had kept his tender heart, and wore it proudly on his sleeve. And this gentle human so easily took me under his wing and gave me a safe place to just be for a moment.

There was no pressure, no expectation, and that warm Texan charm he wielded so effortlessly was never turned on me in an overbearing or unwanted way. Rather, it felt like a warm blanket that I wanted to pull more tightly around me. To be perfectly candid, had he asked for my number that night, I probably would have given it to him. The fact that he never did, made me want to ask for his all the more.

But I was only here for a little while, and as delightful as this night-time interlude had been, it felt like Reno would be one of those people who pop into your life at exactly the right moment, for exactly the right reason, only to disappear as quickly as they’d arrived. Somebody you’d think of randomly on quiet, introspective nights, grateful for the butterfly effect, however small, they’d had on your life.

We bid each other goodnight, and I watched him stroll away with his guitar case and that casual lanky gait of his that made me smile. This charming stranger had turned my night around so effortlessly that it almost seemed surreal. I remember climbing under the blankets on the sofa with a warm sense of gratitude before drifting off, and frankly, it was one of the best nights of sleep I’d had in a long time.

Then the next day came, and along with it, all the unpleasant challenges of trying to lay to rest a man the town seemed glad to be rid of, and whose own wife, well, whatever she was, seemed incapable of mourning in any healthy way.

And there he was again, and there I was, smiling again. He trotted up to me with that unconscious slouch that some taller people develop when they try to accommodate the more vertically challenged person next to them, and I found it incredibly appealing. That hat sitting high atop his head seemed to be an extension of him and, rather than looking goofy as it could so easily have, it just added to that already abundantly endearing persona of his. When I told him I was lost, I don’t know quite how he did it, but yet again, I felt immediately reassured and understood. _“You’ve come to the right person, honey. I was lost for years.”_

I would never have thought that choosing an urn for my father’s ashes would be a humorous task. But he made me laugh more than once despite the funeral director’s annoying solemnity. Reno could tell I was overwhelmed, and he so easily took some of that weight away from me without really even putting a voice to it, except to ask, _“What next?”_

Sometimes it’s the smallest things. 

**Reno**

Just like every day, of every week, of every month, Charlie’s Bar is filled with the town’s drunken misfits, the solemn regulars, and the curious, jovial out-of-towners. But tonight is different for two reasons.

The first reason is that there’s a table of ladies at the front. And as soon as I see them walk in, I feel both excited and calm. Excited, because I know that I’ll likely get to finish my set tonight. Calm, because the chance of bottles or insults being thrown my way has just dramatically decreased.

I’m not really sure why, and to be honest, I don’t really care much to try and understand it on any kind of deep level. But whether it be some innate maternal energy most women seem to carry with them, mothers or not. Or whether it’s because this group of women might in some way know my mother, and in a fashion, they’re reflecting their friendship with her by showing a level of care or attention for me. Either way, Charlie’s stage always becomes a more pleasant space for me when groups of women are there.

By themselves, women can be just as hurtful as the men in the crowd, but they seem to feed off each other in a lighter, more nurturing, way than men do when they’re together in groups.

Pack mentality and escalating aggression. One of the great many things about my gender that I’ll never really understand, nor do I desire to ever perpetuate.

The second, and best reason for tonight being different, is that Ellie is here.

She’d taken Tommy to his soccer game earlier that afternoon, and I wasn’t sure when I’d next see her, but there she is, sitting at the bar, and there I go, making a last minute set change because I want her to know something, and for me, music has always been an easy way to externalise things inside me.

I barely know her, but I know that I feel a connection to her that has been so swift and unexplainable that it’s made even this hopeless romantic take a step back and pinch myself.

Of course, I’m attracted to her, I’m not obtuse. But what we have now is a friendship and I’m okay with that. I’ve made no advances toward her, nor has she toward me, and that’s totally fine. But sometimes, if you’re lucky, friendships that happen like ours; swift, unexpected, and strong, can feel like the gifting of a soulmate, a person that your soul feels know by and deeply connected to.

She truly feels like a friend of my soul. And I know they don’t come around very often. 

Yes, I know that she’ll be leaving here soon, headed back to her life as a designer in California, a thousand miles away from this shitty town and its shitty people. But I want her to know that her friendship is special to me, and that wherever she might be, I would be there if she ever needed me (as long as I could get to her without taking a plane)

My stomach flutters almost painfully as I take the stage and plug the amp into my guitar, but when I look up and see her, my fingers know exactly what to do, and as the music starts, I feel calm again. Music just does that.

_“If you lose your horses because they ran off when lightening struck._

_I will come home from wherever I am until the last one is rounded up._

_If you've got the blues. I'll stand by you._

_If you've got the blues. I'll stand by you. I'll stand by you._

_If you lose your mind because you can't follow the lines._

_I will come home from wherever I am until everything is right._

_If you've got the blues. I'll stand by you._

_If you've got the blues. I'll stand by you. I'll stand by you._

_If I lose my horses because they ran off when lightning struck._

_Will you come home from wherever you are until the last one is rounded,_

_Until the last one is rounded. Until the last one is rounded up.”_

Yes. It is cloyingly sentimental and sappy. Just as any good love-song should be in my opinion.

And as I finish, I open my eyes and I can see that she has heard me. I can see the tears in her eyes that must match mine. But I’m only at the beginning of my set, and that’s as good an excuse as any to let our emotions settle again. I have to remind myself that she’s leaving soon, that there’s no godly reason to give voice to anything beyond a friendship. So I start strumming a brighter melody, and sure enough her mood lifts along with the rest of the crowd, and mine soon follows.

***

As much as my mother and I argue and get on each-other’s nerves. She’s always been my mother, always had a larger-than-life, almost overbearing, presence in my life, and in the lives of so many others in this town. So, when the call comes from the hospital that she’s missing, I have a brief flash of what life without her might look like, and it’s actually terrifying.

And then Ellie is there, offering me her help and her company so effortlessly that I forget that I probably shouldn’t be accepting it when she has so much of her own to deal with.

But her presence is warm and solid and unwavering, and I can’t help but let myself lean on her for a moment. And that’s all it takes. A moment of kindness, of empathy and support. And I find myself sitting in her car, quiet tears slide down my face. I let myself shed tears for the unbearable cycle my mother has trapped herself in, and for the awful gravity that keeps me there, helplessly spectating as she slowly kills herself.

**Ellie**

My chest is still hurting for Reno when we enter the Dairy Queen, so, when Mrs Thacker deadnames him I have to fight my indignant reflex to throw her fries across the room. I can tell immediately, that as much as it hurts Reno, it’s not the first time she has done it, and I can also tell that he is resigned to the fact that it won’t be the last.

Of course, it doesn’t make it okay, and as much as I almost let my temper get the better of me, I quickly realise that cussing out that bigoted storeowner yesterday was a lot different to cussing out his mother. So, I bite my tongue, and as he so easily does, Reno steers the conversation to easier topics.

We get back to his home and he asks for a second opinion on the alterations for the suit he picked out from my fathers clothing. He nervously paces and hovers over his mother’s work, pulling a piece of thread around his fingers to channel some of his excitement. And, I’m certain that he has no idea how adorable nor how attractive he looks in his crisp white shirt and checkered navy boxers, anxiously waiting for Barbara to finish.

Barbara does nothing to endear herself to me when she scoffs at Reno’s comment about recording some of his music. I watch him physically deflate before my eyes, and I know without a doubt that he has to get out of this house and out of this town, before it takes away everything that’s precious inside him. But how do you tell somebody that, especially in-front of their mother?

His blue eyes have been startling vivid since the hospital, and I know it’s because he’s been fighting back tears (with varying degrees of success) for hours. But now I see them turn glassy again, and I can’t help but step in. _“Well, I think those songs are too good to keep to yourself.”_

I can see he is grateful for my defence, but I can also see the resignation in his posture, and his eyes become even bluer than before, if that’s even possible. His smile is there, but it’s defeated as he replies _“Na, I’m not gonna leave this place.”_

The lump in my throat is painful, and I want to try to comfort him, but his walls have gone up and he tells me that he’ll meet me at the funeral tomorrow. So, I leave, hoping at the very least that his new clothes will help him feel a little better.

A lot happened in the twenty-four hours after that.

Jack confided that Tommy might not be his, Amanda and I got into an argument and I told her the truth about what my father had done, I finally broke up with James, and I watched my grandparents suddenly realise how unloved their son had been by the size of the gathering at his funeral. 

But as I sat in the front row, trying to wrap my head around it all, Reno’s almost lullaby-like song wrapped itself around me like a warm hug. I found comfort in the melody he’d created, and in watching him lose himself in the gentle strumming. I had to admit how good he looked in his new suit, but I also had to bite back a smile, because no amount of alterations could hide the fact that Reno was a good three or four inches longer in the legs than my father had been. When he cocked his leg to rest the guitar on it, his new pants barely covered his socks. But to me, he was dapper and endearing and I couldn’t stop watching him.

So, when my father’s drunken friend Roger broke my revere, and dared to call Reno a freak, I couldn’t stop myself. I lashed out and we ended up tousling on the floor. Both Reno and Jack immediately tried to pull Roger away from me and in the tangle Reno ended up with a bloody gash over his eye, and Roger ended up unconscious on the floor, thanks to Amanda.

And the funeral went ahead.

**Reno**

Ellie and Jack took me to the hospital, and I’d be lying if I said that my head hurt more than seeing them together at the nurse’s station.

It’s true. I had absolutely no claim to Ellie. In fact, I’d been diligently platonic in almost every way when it came to our friendship. Yet, despite my almost studious lack of advances toward her, the heart wants what the heart wants. So, when I saw them standing together, and I could sense something between them, I tried my best to be the bigger person despite the ache in my chest.

Jack seemed like a nice guy, he’d raised a great kid, he seemed to care for Ellie, and she was clearly comfortable around him. He seemed a bit odd, but also gentle and reserved, obviously a hard worker, he didn’t drink like his mother did, and he didn’t hesitate to try to defend her. All qualities I would have enthusiastically approved of if Ellie was asking for my opinion on a suitor. Which of course, she wasn’t. So, I bid them both a good night and went back to focusing on the hopefully soon to be dashing scar I was about to get.

I saw her the next day before she flew out, and I didn’t want to ask her about Jack, so, I did what I always do. I fidgeted. I didn’t have my guitar, and my hair had already taken as much sweeping back as it could handle, so I started to pull at the bandage above my eye. _“Do you think anyone would believe me if I said I got in a shark attack?”_

Making Ellie laugh was fast becoming a favourite past-time of mine, so I have to admit, as corny as the joke was, it was worth it to see her almost lose it.

And right then. I knew that I didn’t want her to go. I also knew that I couldn’t rightly ask her to stay. So, instead, I asked her to come with me, and we filled the few hours we had left with an adventure in sweet revenge. I got to make her laugh a whole bunch while we were at it, and God, it felt great.

We got hammered, she missed her flight, and I told her that she wasn’t ready to leave yet, when really, I meant that I wasn’t ready for her to leave yet. And that’s when she looked at me. Quietly. Evenly.

 _“I think you should come out to Los Angeles.”_ She paused as thought realising what she’d just said, then quickly followed it up. _“You could record some songs. I think you need to get out of this place.”_

I couldn’t look at her, not with the way I knew she was looking at me in that moment. I didn’t have any defences right then, so instead, I made light of it, and I made her laugh again. I brought up my paralysing fear of flying, and I certainly wasn’t exaggerating, but she found it funny as I knew she would.

When we said goodbye the next morning it felt like walking though quicksand. We kept moving forward, but each step away form her and each sentence, was a challenge. I knew something had shifted between us last night, but she didn’t bring it up, and honestly, I was to chicken shit to. So, I waved her goodbye from my front lawn, and she drove away.

**Ellie**

I didn’t want to drive away and leave him, but I’d already asked him to come with me.

Really, I didn’t know what I wanted. I just knew that being close to him felt natural and wonderful, and I didn’t want it to end.

We said goodbye almost awkwardly which in itself told me we were both feeling things neither of us could put into words. But when he turned around and waved goodbye at me, my heart broke just a little bit. The way he held his hat in his hand as he waved it, the way his hair was a little less than immaculate after a night spent sleeping in the car, the way the smile on his face was as warm and gentle as always, the slight slouch of his shoulders that had nothing to do with is height, and the way his eyes expressed what he couldn’t or wouldn’t say.

I would have got out of the car, but he turned around and continued to walk toward his front door.

So, I kept driving.

**Reno**

I sometimes think about what might have happened if my mother hadn’t known Ellie’s grandmother.

I got inside and all the emotions of the last few days just welled up inside of me.

Out of nowhere I’d met somebody who accepted me without question. Who made me feel both incredibly normal, and exceptionally special? I certainly hadn’t been looking for her, nor she me. But we couldn’t deny that there was something between us. Could we? My uncertainty was paralysing.

A lifetime of questioning myself, of being afraid to overstep, to intrude, to show my hand too soon, or God forbid, to cause discomfort, it made it so that I felt almost incapacitated of telling her how I felt. What if I’d misread her? What if I was mistaking friendship and acceptance for more?

But when my mother came home and told me that she’d heard that Ellie's grandmother was in the hospital, I forgot all my reservations and went to be there with her.

And that’s when Barbara decided to play on my fears, like she always did so well. Telling me that Ellie didn’t need me there, that her family was trash and that Ellie would just use me, take advantage of my kindness, and throw me out like everyone else.

But this time, with each word out of her mouth, I heard her speaking about herself. And I suddenly realised Ellie was right.

I had to leave.

And I suddenly knew that I wanted to leave with Ellie.

So, I grabbed my guitar, some clothes and my hat. I kissed my mother goodbye, telling her I’d be in touch, and I made my way as quickly as I could to the hospital.

I didn’t know what I was going to say, or how I’d propose coming back to California with her. And I might not be able to tell her how I felt about her right now, but I knew I had to take the leap and go with her if I was ever to have that chance down the track.

**Ellie**

I’d come home to Texas to bury a father I didn’t really know and I’d unexpectedly found so much more in turn.

I found grandparents I didn’t know I had. I found Jack and Tommy. I found that my father had genuinely loved me even though he’d failed miserably in showing it.

And I’d found Reno.

As confused as I was about what I did or didn’t want with Reno, I was in no way confused about whether or not to kiss Jack when he leant in at the hospital. He and I shared a bond for sure, but what we had would only ever be friendship.

Reno however, well, I wasn’t sure how, but after seeing my Grandmother, I knew that I had to find him and tell him how I felt. You don’t get many second chances in this life, and you find even fewer people who love and support you unconditionally in the same way that you love and support them.

My Grandparents and Reno, as unexpected as they were, were most certainly that for me.

I walked out of the hospital, thinking about what I’d say to him. Then I looked up, and there he was. His long frame leaning against my car, looking almost relaxed and casual to a less studied observer. But I knew him better. I could see the anxious way he was scuffing the ground with his shoes, and the tension in his shoulders despite his relaxed curve of his spine.

But despite the nerves we were both feeling, when he looked up and saw me, everything just became easy between us.

We didn’t venture to tell each other exactly how we felt. At least not then. That seemed too scary for us both. Neither of us address the nervous tension that has been rolling off him seconds ago, nor did we mention what was maybe happening between us.

Instead, he leaped in and cut through any uncertainty about why he was there.

_“Where would I stay?”_

_“What do you mean?”_ I asked.

_“In Los Angeles. If I come with you. Where would I stay?”_

Simple as that.

And I returned the favour and cut through any uncertainty about my desire to have him come with me.

_“Well. You’d live with me. You’d have to help me throw out my roommate, but she scares pretty easy.”_

And just like he always seemed to be able to do, he made it easy.

_“Okay.”_

**Reno**

I think back to that journey to California.

It may have been subdued at times with us both trying to figure out what it all meant, neither of us wanting to spoil this new adventure with heavy discussions of feeling or where it was all heading.

So we spent those long dusty hours getting to know each-other in the way only a road-trip allows you to. Discovering small idiosyncrasies, and major character traits about each other that helped us each form much more well rounded and realistic images of the other person.

The first big moment between us occurred over music. I suppose, most big moments in road trips occur over music don't they?

We listened to music of all kinds, my choice when she drove, and hers when I did, although we soon agreed I would do the majority of the singing and she would massacre the harmony and the lyrics only if the mood absolutely took her. Our tastes were varied, with just enough crossover to earn mutual respect, while the differences allowed for a very entertaining and informative stream of random facts or trivia about the artists or the lyrics.

About an hour into the trip, “Born this Way” randomly came on and Ellie turned it up as high as it would go and started dancing in her seat, advising me that this ‘anthem’ could only properly be experience in a gay club during Pride, which she promised we’d do in LA. My brain was busy registering her seemingly unconscious commitment to a long term friendship between us, doing mental calculation about how far away Pride was from now, and imagining all the mundane domesticity and fun adventures that could occur between now and then. 

While the heavy bass and synth wasn’t something I was particularly fond of, I let Ellie’s infectious enthusiasm wash over me and I sat back, tapped my fingers on the steering wheel and listened to the lyrics for the first time. Sure, I’d heard of Lady GaGa, but I’d never actually sat down and listened to her. 

And suddenly a lump formed in my throat when I heard.

_“… there’s nothing wrong with loving who you are, she said, ‘cause He made you perfect …”_

No sooner had I stopped the quiver in my lip than I had to blink away the tears that clouded my vision, because, to my utter amazement, I had just heard myself included in lyrics, loudly, openly and proudly, for the first time in my life.

_”…_ _No matter gay, straight or bi, lesbian, transgender life - I'm on the right track, baby. I was born to survive. No matter black, white or beige, chola or Orient made - right track, baby, I was born to be brave. I’m beautiful in my way, cause God makes no mistakes …”_

Ellie reached over and laid her hand on my arm, knowing the effect the lyrics had had on me, and she somehow instinctively knew to continue rattling off trivia while I composed myself. Letting that overwhelming sense of inclusion settle itself quietly around me rather than bringing attention to it.

I learned that Lady GaGa’s real name was Stephanie and that she took her stage moniker from the Queen song Radio Ga Ga (immediately piquing my interest even more, and elevating my opinion of an artist I admittedly didn’t know much about). Her fans apparently call themselves Little Monsters, so of course Ellie held both her hands up like claws and crouched low in her seat to emulate a said ‘monster’ and it had the desired effect on me. I laughed out loud.

She told me that Lady GaGa had once worn a dress made entirely of meat to an awards ceremony, and at that point, I demanded to see proof. So she pulled out her phone, and sure enough, the meat dress was there in all its horrific glory, as so too was the statement she made about it being a protest about the US military’s “don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy. And immediately I knew that I would soon be referring to myself, even if only in private, as a Little Monster.

We sat in companionable silence for a while after that as I appreciated the ability of music and artistry to evoke such a range of emotions.

I decided it was time for a break and for me to take charge of the musical education for a while. So, we changed seats, and within minutes, I landed on exactly the station I was hoping for. Folsom Prison Blues wafted through the speakers and that was the moment that Ellie was introduced to my deep and abiding love for Johnny Cash. Like any good country music historian, I told her about his long and very public struggle with addiction, how he and his wife June met at the Grand ole Opry in 1956 but that they were both married to other people at the time, and how Ring of Fire was written about their inconvenient yet inevitable love for each other. How June stood by him and eventually helped him through addiction, how Johnny proposed to June on stage during a concert, and they finally married in 1968 and remained together until they both passed mere months apart, 35 years later in 2003.

I found myself overcome with a bout of melancholy so I turned the radio down and started strumming some chords from one of my favourite songs of his, ‘Hurt’, telling her it was a cover of a Nine Inch Nails song about addiction, That Johnny had beautifully reimagined the song and made this version his own. Knowing I couldn’t do it justice myself, I pulled out my phone and played her the video of it. Pointing out Johnny’s wife June when she appeared in the video, watching over him. Commenting that even though the screen you could tell how special their love had been. We both got teary when I told her that June had died only a month after that video was filmed, and that Johnny followed her only four months later. Many, myself included, believe due to a broken heart.

She smiled and looked at me before gently punching my shoulder and calling me a hopeless romantic. I squinted back at her, taking in her blotchy cheeks and red rimmed eyes and shrugged, replying _“You can talk.”_ And we both laughed.

There were so many more discoveries to be made over the course of that two day trip, not all of them as heavy or revealing as that.

I discovered that her fiery temper wasn’t solely reserved for ignorant family members, or in defence of me. More than once she had me shrinking down in my seat (not an easy feat for somebody of my height, let me tell you) as some unassuming driver did wrong by her.

We agreed that I was the better driver, but we also agreed that mentioning it was tantamount to treason.

I learned that strumming my guitar, whether an actual song, or just a rambling melody, seems to sooth her. She becomes introspective and calm, but still attentive to the music I’m making. Engaged in conversation, but not to a point where it drowns out the sounds of the instrument. So, in turn, I discovered a whole new joy in idly strumming, which I would do for miles on end, talking with her about anything and everything.

At one point during our trip she equated the feeling my strumming evoked in her to the same comforting feeling she used to get when rain fell against the roof of her childhood home at night-time. Back when her mother was still alive, and life still held an aura of magic and possibility around it.

The analogy was touching, and I had to swallow back the emotions that started welling up inside of me. Thankfully, the music took over again and allowed us both to appreciate that quiet, intimate moment. 

She loved to draw. Which seems ridiculous to comment on because, of course, she’s a designer. But I’d often look across at her and find her twisted around in her seat, lip caught adorably between her teeth, and pencil scribbling furiously as she glanced intently between me and her notebook. She refused to show me her drawings of me, instead showing me sketches of strangers, furniture, buildings, even the dash of the car. My curiosity burnt hot inside of me, but I never pushed. I admired and commented on every single piece she did choose to show me, and even to my uneducated eyes, I could tell she had so much talent.

Late that afternoon I found out that she can fall asleep just about anywhere, even while driving on a bumpy, unsealed road, with the music up high, and a freak thunderstorm crashing down around us. It would have been endearing if I’d had the nerve to think about it at the time.

I discovered that she is virtually incapable of sitting like a normal person. And that made me laugh out loud, because, as it turns out, I share the same affliction.

She tucks her feet up under herself, while I put my much longer ones up on the dash or occasionally out the window. She swivels in her seat to face me, and I swivel in mine so that my knees don’t get bruises all over them. She hunches over while she sketches, forming a shelter over her work. I slouch back when I play, leaving room for my guitar and my arms to move around as much as the space will allow. We both like to recline the passenger seat and curl up on our sides while we chat or nap. She looks admittedly adorable when she does it, but I’m sure my much longer frame manages to look painfully uncomfortable when I do it. 

So many times while growing up, my mother would find me sitting awkwardly over my food or my guitar, and she'd clip me over my head or yell out across the room, saying “I didn’t raise you in a barn!” 

So, yeah, it makes me laugh. Knowing that neither Ellie or I will ever win an award for good posture, but we would probably happily, and proudly, share the wooden spoon.

Refreshingly, we soon learned that neither of us assumes each-others limitations.

She seemed pleasantly surprised that when our tire blew, she only had to decline my help once. That I was content to hang back and let her do what she was clearly capable of doing; I happily held the spare while she put in all the elbow grease and got the job done.

We made it to the next town and purchased a replacement, which turned out to be quite fortuitous, because 300 miles later, it was Ellie who hung back and handed me the spare while I tipped my hat and smiled at her, thanking her for the unspoken acknowledgment of my own capabilities.

We decided to sleep in the car that night, mostly to save money, but also because Ellie mentioned that she hadn’t had many opportunities to see the stars at night since moving to LA. And of course, this camping loving cowboy was going to try my best to correct that for her.

Just our luck that the old ‘63 Studebaker Wagonaire that she’d inherited came equipped with a sliding roof. (God, how I lusted over every detail of that car). It was like a convertible, but classy, cultured, and functional. Sexy in the refined, distinguished way that only classic cars exude. 

I’ve heard people used a funny term to describe any type of camping with creature comforts, and I suppose you could call what we did that night, glamping. 

In my quest to simulate the camping experience as best we could, I pulled over somewhere off the highway in Arizona, slid the roof back, dropped the seats, and we made ourselves a perfectly functional, and somewhat charming glamping spot for the night. Equipped with a radio, blankets and snacks.

We settled in and the quiet of the night started to take over, it was then that I abruptly remembered my penchant for cuddling my pillows at night. I found myself suddenly terrified to fall asleep lest my body end up mistaking Ellie for one of my many softer non-human sleeping companions. So, I lay there. Stiff as a board. Staring at the stars until my eyes lost focus. Praying that my body would remain put when I finally closed them, silently curing my decision to ‘camp’ in the back of a car with a woman I had undefined feelings for. 

Thankfully, I soon learned that Ellie doesn’t generate body heat as efficiently as I do, and she quickly closed the gap between us and eased my unspoken distress by asking if she could use me to keep her warm.

When her body settled snugly against mine, and her arm wrapped around my waist, I found myself in a whole other conundrum. All of a sudden, I wasn’t worried about what my unconscious body would do when I fell asleep. I was worried that she could hear my heart jackhammering against my chest and feel the occasional shiver course through my body. A shiver that had absolutely nothing to do with the night-time air.

But I need not have worried. Because, as I’d already learned, she could fall asleep at the drop of a hat. And, her heavy breathing, her warmth, and the fresh air soon pulled me under too.

As predicted, my body did end up shifting and snuggling against hers sometime in the early morning, but my half-asleep panic was immediately allayed away when I realised that her hand had been wrapped snugly around my arm, inviting me there, and securing me against her. 

I discovered that she likes toast and coffee for breakfast, while I like pancakes, eggs, and bacon, all smothered, rather drowned, in syrup. 

I discovered that she likes her hamburgers with extra cheese and pickles, milkshakes of any flavour except strawberry, and that when dared, she can eat a tube of pringles in less than 5 minutes.

She also never failed to show her playful disgust over my food habits. I had an unabashed love for all things deep-fried and all things laden with sugar, and if I could find a crossover of the two genres, I was in seventh heaven. Like the time I bought a deep fried snickers bar in a questionable diner somewhere after we crossed the California border.

To my self-declared credit, I did offer to share it with her.

I have to admit. It had been pretty clear for some time that some of my mothers eating habits had rubbed off on me, and I’d always found myself thankful for my height, my healthy metabolism, and my youth. But somewhere between Phoenix and Palm Springs I decided that I needed to try and reign in some of my more indulgent habits if I didn’t want genetics to come back and bite me in the ass twenty years from now. I guess subconsciously, I also wanted to be ‘better’.

Suffice to say, after two days, the novelty of fast food was wearing thin, and the distinct lack of any type of greenery or fresh food on our trip had left both the car and it’s occupants smelling and feeling a little worse for wear by the time we pulled up to Ellie’s apartment. 

We all but tumbled out of the Wagoinaire, me desperate for a shower, Ellie desperate for a salad. I grabbed my bags and looked up at the door, trying to calm myself again, she sensed and immediately allayed some of my anxiety by telling me her roommate was away for a few days.

But that was really only a small part of my anxiety.

I had no plans beyond coming to California with her. I had no job, I had no family here. Would I sleep on the couch? How would I buy food? How would I contribute until I found a job? How would I even begin to record my music? And at the forefront of my mind; what exactly was our relationship?

Honestly, if Ellie wanted me in her life as a friend, I could definitely figure out a way to be that. But the way I’d been feeling, and the way we’d been interacting, made me face the reality that I couldn’t pretend to just want a friendship with her.

I’d have to be honest with her, if only just to start this new adventure of ours on a foundation of honesty. I just didn’t know how I’d say it, or when.

So, I took a deep breath, and followed her up the stairs, into what was to become our new home together. Hoping that the courage and the inspiration would come to me quickly.

I had to admit that Ellie had worked her way into my heart, and I’d happily let her in. Somewhat sentimentally I found myself comparing us to June and Johnny, our connection was also anything but convenient, but for me at least, it seemed inevitable.

I most definitely felt myself falling hopelessly, and as I did, Johnny’s voice echoed in my head.

_“I fell into a burning ring of fire_ _, I went down, down, down and the flames went higher …”_

***


End file.
